Backpacking’s not sexy. The word backpack makes you think of struggle. Backpacking is just a way to get to someplace awesome.

— Ace Kvale & Desert Dawg

Last month, I challenged myself to a daily writing practice. It has spilled over into this month, too. I’m writing about my Appalachian Trail odyssey. Writing turns out to be a lot like hiking. If you get up every day and put one foot in front of the other, or, in the case of writing, one word after another, eventually you get somewhere. If you’re hiking, you may look back one day and realize, “Oh my God, I’m in Vermont. And I walked here!” If you’re writing, when you look back, it’s “Oh my God, I’ve written 100,000 words. It’s a book!”

When I’m not stringing words together (67,800 so far!), I immerse myself in the craft of writing memoir. So I read a lot of memoirs. I study how other writers give structure to a life full of stories and make those stories come alive. I think of these writers—Mary Karr, Annie Dillard, Ariel Levy—as mentors. I want to surround myself with inspiring writers who know how to tell a story that makes me cry. And laugh. And stab me in the heart with their honesty.

Adventure stories

Every once in a while, I find an author who writes a memoir about an adventure similar to mine and writes about it well. Their adventure transcends the walk in the woods they took over a summer.

Cheryl Strayed’s Wild was one such book. She didn’t string together a bunch of Trail Journals entries and call it a book. Her hike was a journey that transformed her and from which she gleaned more universal meaning. That’s why it was so successful. It wasn’t just about her. She touched a collective nerve.

It’s a rare treat to find a book about an epic adventure, especially a hiking adventure, where the author is generous and vulnerable with the details she shares. My heart breaks open when writers expose their underbellies and shine light on their dark shames. The most compelling journeys are the ones where, at the end, the pilgrim has stepped into the next highest version of herself and where she has stared without flinching at the raw, ugly parts she has walked away from. Those stories are special and uncommon.

I have a soft spot and a deep reverence for the White Mountains, where I’ve spent many summers dragging myself up indifferent mountains because it’s the only way to get to that someplace awesome—an open summit that touches clouds.

Bragging rights

Apart from the grueling path the Appalachian Trail takes through them, the White Mountains offer another epic adventure for goal-oriented people who become obsessed with getting to the tops. There are 48 peaks over 4,000 feet tall in the Whites. If you climb them all, you get to join the exclusive 4,000 footer club.

Membership offers you nothing but bragging rights. No prize. No trophy. Not even a patch to sew on your pack or a sticker to decorate your van. You get nothing but the right to brag that you struggled to someplace awesome, to the tops of 48 peaks, a thing, let’s face it, most people will never do.

Bragging rights are not nothing.

No guarantees

Bagging all those peaks is not for the fragile, the easily discouraged or people with crusty knees.

Unless you’re one of those crusty-kneed people who believes you can do anything you set your mind to. But even then, nothing is guaranteed.

Nature is a motherfucker. She doesn’t care if you make it or not. She doesn’t even care if you get off your sofa and get out there.

Cheryl Suchors got out there.

And we all had our doubts at the beginning about how long she would stay out there. She started her quest to join the 4,000 footer club as a non-hiker when she was in her late forties. She had crusty knees. She battled the fear of heights, multiple injuries and grief along the way. She made rookie mistakes. She looked hard at herself. And she kept going even when it was hard, even when it scared her, even when the magic faded and the project became a more of a chore and less of an enchantment.

This book is so much more than a chronicle of climbing 48 mountains in New Hampshire. Yes, it’s rooted in an outdoor adventure, one that parallels a long distance hike in the many ways it challenged her over her time on the trail. You’ll get your nature on when you read it. Cheryl captures the unique and rugged terrain of the Whites with her descriptive writing.

But the story stretches beyond the specifics of climbing Mts. Washington, Lafayette, Moosilauke and the rest. It transcends the knee-jarring descents, the slick granite slabs like ice skating rinks, the crosswinds that could blow a hiker into the abyss like a piece of dandelion fluff.

It strums a universal chord because the way we have to dig deep to complete such a physically demanding project is often the way we have to dig deep to get through the project of life, with its same requirements for resilience and fearlessness and surrender.

48 Peaks is a meditation on friendship and grief and perseverance. It’s a testament to the transformational power of setting a goal and seeing it through to completion no matter what obstacles life, or nature, throws across your path. It’s an ode to the life-affirming power of nature. It’s a celebration of the healing power of the wild places through which we pass and also the wild places that we carry with us.

Most of all, this is a book that will inspire readers to get off the sofa, get out there and do something worth bragging about.

I’ve gained some of that back since I got off the trail because...ice cream!

What didn’t come back was the grudge. The harsh self-judgement. The sense that it’s not okay for my thighs to touch.

I fell into the trap, like every one I know

Like many women in our culture of stick-figure worship, I’ve spent most of my life unsatisfied with my shape. Even at my fittest, I thought I needed to lose a few more pounds to be happy.

My own grudge started early. How does a five year old know to compare herself to another kid and to come up short? Stacy Toler lived behind us and she came into life as a skinny twig. I will never be Stacy Toler skinny, but that didn’t stop me from thinking I should at least aspire to that standard.

Emphasis on maximus

I have meat on my bones and always will—broad shoulders, thighs that touch, gluteus maximus with the emphasis on maximus. Built for power. Not speed. Unable to appreciate that both are beautiful and valuable.

Do you know what Percherons do well? They haul heavy loads. They do it all day long without tire. They are the thru-hikers of the horse world and it took a thru-hike for me to finally begin to appreciate what’s unique and special about my own build.

Thru-hiking transformed and healed my body image. There’s no going back to old grudges. There’s no going back to wishing I was a stick figure. Only going deeper into acceptance and loving what is.

How I turbo-charged this body-image miracle

The transformation on the trail happened without a lot of fanfare or even effort.

It involved a lot of gratitude for my body on a day by day, sometimes minute by minute, basis. I asked a lot of it, it rallied in spectacular ways and I made sure to say "thank you" frequently and effusively.

It involved a willingness to appreciate what I’d been given (or what I’d chosen), gluteus maximus and all, and to let go of the habit of comparing myself to the Stacy Tolers of the trail.

It involved a lot of forgiveness, mostly to myself for the thoughts about my body I’d cultivated in the past that kept me locked in an unwinnable battle with my body and my self.

It involved a lot of faith that I was on the right path, that healing was possible and that the Divine was guiding me to get over my self (lower case s) and move forward.

It involved a willingness to change my values, to release my belief that Thoroughbreds are betterthan Percherons and to see the truth. That they are gloriously different and spectacularly beautiful in their own unique ways.

And, by extension, so am I.

I didn't have any Percheron pics, so enjoy some Grayson Highlands ponies. One of the highlights of my hike.

I had coffee with my friend Stacy of The Everyday Lightworker the other day. (Seriously, check out her podcast, in which you get the exact boost you need without having known you needed it).

We were talking about how we're both being called to say "No" to a lot of things that just don't feel right anymore in order to say "Yes" to staying in alignment, as much as possible, with what we came here to do.

And by here, I mean this planet at this time in this body with my own unique set of skills, quirks, talents and fears.

A Work in Progress

It's a work in progress, I admit, but progress stops when I bend to other people's ideas of who I should be, how I should act, what I should wear, whether or not I should comb my hair.

Speaking of what I should wear and whether or not I should bother with a blow dryer, one thing that's clear to me is this: NO MORE BUSINESS WOMEN'S NETWORKING MEETINGS!!!!!

But I recognize lolly-gagging around in my PJs all day without even brushing my teeth isn't serving me any more. (It absolutely did serve me after I finished my 1,800 mile hike for the year. I was friggin' tired and sore and hungry, so the PJs got some needed action.)

Time to Get Dressed

It's time to get dressed and get out now. But in a mindful way where I'm seeking out like-minded people who don't spew "elevator speeches" at me when I try to get to know them.

Stacy is a great resource. She told me about Mindful Mornings, an organization that holds "a monthly forum for do-gooders who want to create a more well-world." It's stocked with creatives and entrepreneurs and artists and people generally doing cool shit in the world.

I'm guessing there will be some interesting hipster facial hair. Which will help me feel like I'm on the trail again.

My Do-Gooder Mission

They wanted to know my "do-gooder mission". Kind of an elevator speech, I admit, but with the focus on giving, not getting. So, here's what I told them:

I'm on a mission to inspire women who are searching for what’s true about themselves to to find their inner compass by embarking on a long distance hike—the modern way to “pilgrimage” and a fast track to spiritual growth. #thisshitworks

Three Things I Wanted

Last week I was thrilled to get an email from an acquaintance I met several years ago. (Hi, Bean!)

She was my hero when I met her because she was downsizing, living with her husband in a camper and plotting escape to life on the road. In a camper. With pets. She’s doing it now and blogging about it at yukonandbean.com.

A total inspiration.

She was surprised at the twists and turns my life has taken over the years, so here’s what I wrote back to her:

“Hitting the road was always something I wanted to do.

As a kid I wanted three things—1) a Chinook camper (I sent for the brochure when I was ten and kept that brochure through high school) so I could take epic road trips; 2) an art studio in my backyard, if I ever settled down; and 3) mountains all around.

So I wouldn’t say I actually did a 180 turn. It’s more like I recognized myself and started embracing what's important to the real me.

Hiking the Appalachian Trail was just an accessible way to start honoring my nomadic tendencies!”

Base Camp on Wheels

Now, my husband and I are shopping for a van to convert into a minimalist RV, the key word being "minimalist." I'm not so interested in road trips, per se. My dream has evolved because I prefer walking now over driving. The "epic road trip" is a means to an end, a way to get to the trail head for the "epic saunter."

So all we need is a van with a bed and a stove, solar panels on the roof and a place to store loaded backpacks, my tiny sketching kit and dog paraphernalia. It’s a base camp on wheels.

Because the idea now is to hike more, drive less.

Hike more, drive less. It's good in so many ways.

This long distance hiking thing is, by the way, an idea more women should embrace. All women, really. Of all ages, but especially older women who've spent their lives looking at brochures without ever taking the actual plunge into their dream.

Long distance hiking changes lives in the most positive ways and in ways that driving around never will. It opens the doors to all sorts of dreams and gives you to confidence to pursue them.

I mean, if I can do this, what else might I be able to do?

We'll get back to the connection between hiking and dreaming in good time, but for now, let me just make a quick case for walking more and driving less.

A Case for Walking More

1. It's gentler on our planet. And our glorious planet needs all the help it can get right now.

2. It increases my connection to the planet. One way to care about said glorious planet is to get to know it better. I may cover less ground while walking, but I cover it mindfully. Slowing down helps open my eyes to the tiniest units of beauty, like the new type of salamander I "discovered" outside my tent one evening in Tennessee. Or the owl that discovered me one night on Max Patch, hovering over my head for a few seconds before disappearing into the starry night.

Slowing down to two miles/hour expands my capacity to wonder about the world around me and to love it even more deeply. Have you seen the way the rocks glitter in Maine? Did you know that lichens bloom? Glorious!

3. It's better for my body. Humans were made to move. A lot more than I was moving before I thru-hiked. The daily practice of walking ten to fifteen miles a day makes me feel alive and strong and healthier than I've ever felt. Did you see my hiker quads? Seriously bad ass!

A Mahoosuc Notch moment. Dang, that was fun!

4. It nourishes more than my body. It "works" on my emotional, mental and soul levels, too. I don't listen to podcasts or music much while I hike. And I hike alone a lot of the time, too, with the intention of solving a problem or knowing myself more deeply, addressing a fear or practicing radical forgiveness.

The key is setting intentions for your walk and being open to what comes.

Because something always comes during the rhythmic, hypnotic action of walking, breathing, being alone in nature.

Have I missed anything? What does hiking do for you that driving doesn't quite manage? Or what do you get out of driving that hiking doesn't deliver? Leave a comment below and share your thoughts...I'm really curious.

We challenged ourselves this week on an overnighter where I purposely chose a trail with a bit of a reputation, Section 1 of the Art Loeb Trail.

It was HARD, and it triggered all kinds of fear and doubt about my ability to finish a 2,000 mile thru-hike. I had to talk myself down off the ledge and in this post I share four ways to appease that fearful voice inside that wants to keep us small.